


A Young Man’s Fancy

by Flobbergasted



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode: s03e08 Great and Sudden Change, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 07:14:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21406264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flobbergasted/pseuds/Flobbergasted
Summary: After his confrontation with Anne at the bonfire, Gilbert walks home through the woods and nurses (doctors?) his broken heart.(In which Gilbert is sure of his heart but not his mind, and Anne is sure of her mind but not her heart.)An extended missing scene set during 3x08, “Great and Sudden Change.”
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley
Comments: 14
Kudos: 88





	1. Gilbert Fails to Speak

He had sat across from her and implored her, with his very soul, to answer the song of his own … and she had appeared utterly confounded, had poured out confounding words, and had allowed herself to be dragged away from their momentous conversation by the other schoolgirls. Confound it!

“… I’ll be off, then,” he’d said, for lack of anything else to say. Even as Gilbert could feel his heart breaking in his chest, his courtesy didn’t fail him. He would not treat Anne ill just because she didn’t share his feelings. “Goodnight.”

He tried not to look back at her. He tried. But evidently he couldn’t be trusted with his own dignity, because he stole one last glance, hoping … but she had moved on.

With a deep intake of breath, he schooled his face into a mask of stoicism, and walked back toward the tree line. He passed through the rowdy gaggle of his classmates as quickly as he could, shrugging off their calls to join the revelry (“Gilbert, you made it! Have some moonshine!” “Sing us a sea shanty, Gilbert!” “Hey, where’s your beautiful _fiancée_, Gilbert?”). Normally one to lead the laughter and rouse the spirits of his fellows, Gilbert felt at that moment that he couldn’t stand another minute in proximity of his friends’ free-wheeling whoops and hollers.

He met the forest and welcomed the darkness. The yawps and giggles and the crackling bonfire faded away, now overtaken by the sound of leaves rustling, owls hooting, and the ambient ebb and flow of the waves upon the now-distant shore. Trees gained in number and strength around him and he stalked on, his brow furrowed again, the sweat under his collar cooling in the night’s shade.

But in the quietude his thoughts were clamouring. Surely Anne knew—and had known for years—that Gilbert had been carrying a torch for her. (Literally, tonight.) Surely she had always seen, as he presumed everyone had always seen, that he was as a moth to her flame. (Again: literally, tonight.) So then, surely, Anne had understood what he’d meant when he’d said … whatever it was he had said to her as they’d sat together in that long moment with bated breath. What had he said, exactly? He had said everything he needed to say, surely? It was all a bit foggy now. But the unpleasant and most salient bit had sunk in: she had been appalled by his forwardness and had danced around his implications. She had been speechless in the face of the suggestion that they change the nature of their friendship.

As he reached the halfway point between the ruins and his house, in the midst of the woods, he noticed his breathing had become less laboured. His pace had slowed. The breeze had given way to a delicious and cool tranquility, and the ferns were unfurling themselves to the night sky in wondrous, trusting patterns. The trees stood by him still, and the earthy forest floor accepted his footfalls with sympathy. With nary a faraway farmhouse light to mar his solitude, he felt bolstered by the island itself, and his thoughts became a touch more merciful: _I will not dwell on the unpleasant things of life. There is nothing to be done but accept Anne’s friendship, however much I’m able, and move forward._

He could do that. He’d be good at that. He’d had to put so many people behind him already in his young life. He’d just have to do it again. Lock up the old loving feelings and stow them in a box in the closet. The world was wide, after all; there would always be something else to look forward to.

Finally, the woods reached their crest and rolling farmland came into view through the thinning trunks. Ahead and to his left, up the hill and beyond the back acre of the orchard, the lights of the Blythe-LaCroix farmhoise came into view. Here, beyond a stump that had never been cleared and instead served to buttress the orchard fence, was the beginning of his little civilization.

At the sight of his cozy home, Gilbert nearly lost all his steam. Recalling that he couldn’t afford to sully his finest trousers, he didn’t allow himself to sit down on the nearby stump. Instead he hung back and leaned to rest against a forgiving poplar.

How was it that, only a few nights ago, as he sat with Anne on Miss Stacy’s porch, the moonlight had seemed so gleaming and magical, like a deep pool into which he had plunged? Now it seemed silvery and cool and untouchable, like the surface of a glass whose images couldn’t be reached or made real.

He tore his cap from his head and ran his frustrated hands through his chestnut curls, rubbed his eyes as if to excise the absolute vision that was Anne as he had seen her less than an hour ago—free and happy, beautiful in her own confidence, beautiful in all the ways he could think to apply the word. And he allowed the tears to come. Just this once, Gilbert Blythe would allow himself to shed tears for Anne Shirley-Cuthbert—for everything he had dared to imagine about his future home and life—for everything they would never discover about one another—for all the joy that could have flown from his heart and surrounded her, if she’d only wanted to open it for herself. Only the silver moon bore witness to Gilbert’s heartbreak that night. Only the stars shone brighter than his hazel eyes, his damp cheeks.

(He’d tried, on a few occasions, to imagine domestic life with Winifred, but he found he couldn’t picture her in anything beyond the moments when he had already been with her. Whenever he pictured her in his future home, she insisted on wearing exactly the starched-and-pressed clothes and hat she’d been wearing when he’d last seen her. Furthermore, upon exploring that imagined future home—which easily accommodated a warm fireplace, ample bookshelves, a dog, a cat, a handful of laughing children calling him father—Gilbert was never able to come upon Winifred naturally. She was always knocking at the front door as a welcome visitor or being heard to laugh with a fellow guest while admiring the vegetable garden; never could she be found in the middle of a household task or even comfortably at leisure. Instead, Gilbert would turn the corner while going upstairs and suddenly run into Anne, who was on her way down, in a hurry to get to a village improvement society meeting or some such. Or he’d find Anne in the upper hall by the widow’s walk, pacing back and forth, reading dramatically from a well-worn volume as her hair gleamed in the dwindling sunlight of the day. There Anne would be again, in the kitchen, with flour on her lovely nose and a couple of cherubic toddlers hanging off her apron, baking the week’s bread while he ate a hurried breakfast before leaving to make a house call on a patient. And no matter where he went, she’d be _talking_ to him, constantly talking to him, and she’d just keep talking to him forever …)

After the tears came anger: mostly anger at himself for not being able to forget Anne, ever, since the first day they met—despite all the evidence she had consistently provided that he was a thorn in her side, that she didn’t and wouldn’t think of him as a romantic prospect. And there was some anger at her, too: for not thinking of him that way when he knew—he_ just knew—_they could have been so good together; for not seeming to want him at all, when he wanted only her to flavour his days; for simply existing in her own right and not craving anything in relation to him (“Women matter on their own, and not in relation to a man,” she had written) … but of course that wasn’t fair at all, and he knew that, and that briefly made him angry, too; why couldn’t he put his own righteousness aside, just for a minute, for the sake of wallowing?

And if—after having forgotten about his fine jacket and wiping his tears on his sleeve—Gilbert picked up a few early-fallen apples and whipped them as far as he could down the length of the fence, watching with grotesque satisfaction as they hit the fenceposts further down, shattered out of their skins, and flew off in pieces—well, no one but the cold, quiet moon bore witness to that either.

So he had left the ruins of his foolish, young heart at the ruins. How fitting. _Boyhood, begone! Manhood, if you must come to me this way, I am here to meet you._

He could walk on. He could pick up his hat, replace it snugly on his level head, and walk on.

He could get through this night. He could meet morning. He could carry his life forward. He would simply do it.


	2. But alas, the morning did look unpropitious

Gilbert was bone tired after a full day. He’d taken the early train to Charlottetown, written his Queen’s entrance exams, socialized with Winnie’s family, taken the evening train back home, found his schoolmates at the ruins, had an exhausting and perhaps ultimate conversation with Anne, and walked home through the woods. He shoved a slice of bread and cold ham down his throat before sneaking up the creaky stairs, shucking his Sunday jacket and vest, and collapsing onto his bed.

But when sleep finally came, it was fitful and short-lived. There was fire in his dreams, and shining red hair that he could _almost_ grasp before it slipped through his fingers. He tossed and turned for what seemed like hours before finally giving up, sitting up, and lighting the candle by his bedside. He picked up a book and began to read, but he couldn’t bring his focus to the pages and found himself reading the same paragraph thrice over. With a sigh, he blew out the candle again and leaned his head against the wall.

He told himself, again, to let go of Anne. It didn’t matter what he’d imagined or hoped; the reality had shown itself to be different. And wasn’t it the very definition of insanity, to insist upon living according to anything other than reality? Wouldn’t things just be easier if he ignored the fact that he loved Anne? The way would be so clear. If he told himself the way was clear enough times then it would become true, wouldn’t it? That’s what he would do, then. He would just have to get up tomorrow—no, this morning—and … do that.

The only way past grief was to keep moving forward; hadn’t he learned that already? Why did he seem to keep being tested in this way? Why did he keep giving his heart to people who couldn’t or wouldn’t stay with him?

Try as he might to let go—_let go!—_Gilbert knew he was the type to hold on. So he fought the instinct even harder.

Gradually, the summer day dawned, bright and full of potential as ever.

He forced himself to think of Winnie: charming, pretty Winnie, her mirthful blue eyes, her excellent sense of humour and remarkable social graces, her generous family. Her lovely figure, if he was being honest, and her confidence with him, her willingness to entertain a younger man, his absolute luck at having met her. She truly deserved love and care and companionship and an equal partner. And he knew he had it in him to provide those things to someone.

Words he hadn’t ever really imagined himself saying, he practised now: _Will you marry me? … May I have your hand in marriage? … Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife? _It all sounded so grown up. Just saying the words made him feel like he was being pushed forward into adulthood. Maybe this was a good thing.

It was time to bite the bullet and find his mother’s ring, then. He got out of bed and put his nervous energy to use, rifling through boxes of keepsakes and closet contents.

There it was: the black velvet satchel. The ring dropped out daintily, and he knew it was bound for a dainty finger—someone to bring daintiness back into his life, his boys’ club of a home.

When he held it up to the light and the green-blue gemstone glinted in the morning sun, he had to banish the image of red hair and a wide grin that immediately came to his mind. The picture in his mind’s eye was so clear—Anne, kneeling as he did, across from him, feeling everything for him that he felt for her, and _wanting _as he wanted—that he had to shake his head to rid himself of it. Instead he made himself remember Winifred’s coy smile, Winifred’s even-keeled temperament, Winifred’s warm acceptance.

The day had fully arrived now; he couldn’t reasonably dawdle any longer.

Put on a brave face, head downstairs.

Maybe eat a good breakfast to try and calm his roiling stomach.

**Author's Note:**

> With especial thanks to this passage from Anne of Avonlea (found in Chapter XXIX, “Poetry and Prose”), for which I've dared to write a counterpart:
> 
> “Anne had no sooner uttered the phrase, ‘home o’dreams,’ than it captivated her fancy and she immediately began the erection of one of her own. It was, of course, tenanted by an ideal master, dark, proud, and melancholy; but oddly enough, Gilbert Blythe persisted in hanging about too, helping her arrange pictures, lay out gardens, and accomplish sundry other tasks which a proud and melancholy hero evidently considered beneath his dignity. Anne tried to banish Gilbert’s image from her castle in Spain but, somehow, he went on being there, so Anne, being in a hurry, gave up the attempt and pursued her aerial architecture with such success that her ‘home o’dreams’ was built and furnished before Diana spoke again.”


End file.
